


Top Advice

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Transfer Window, UEFA European Championship, UEFA Super Cup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 12:34:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2309834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the night of the UEFA Super Cup, and Xabi is unable to play for Real Madrid due to a booking. He meets Alberto Moreno, who's emotional because he's been yanked from the Seville roster, being Liverpool bound and isn't taking it well. Xabi realises that he's never been as young as Alberto Moreno seemingly is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Top Advice

**Author's Note:**

> Taken from [this interview](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G09sy2ayrrE#t=22). Moreno seemed really broken up about leaving Sevilla FC, so I'm glad that Alonso give him a pep talk of sorts. In my head, this is how I imagine it happening. 
> 
> Alonso couldn't play in the Super Cup, because he got booked with his actions for la decimá all the way back in May. The UEFA rejected Real Madrid's appeal for him to play in August.
> 
> Ratings for language.
> 
> One shot.

As soon as Xabi Alonso stepped out into the night air at Cardiff’s City Stadium, he gave an involuntary full bodied shiver. Despite him being in a suit and tie, and not in his usual kit, the air had the bite of an early fall. Madrid living, he thought, his mouth tugging into its habitual self mocking twist, had made him soft. Anything under twenty degrees celsius, and he would mewl like a newborn. Tsking at himself and the weather, he quickly made his way out of the chill. 

The night of the UEFA Super Cup, and he couldn’t be on the roster because of him streaking down on the field in the prior match. La decimá in May- Real Madrid had won, he’d died a thousand time in the stands at every thwarted move, the emotion building within him under all that pressure until it exploded, and could only be expressed by a lap of joyous victory. Plantini - _culo_ of the biggest order, refused to listen to pleas put forward by Real Madrid as Xabi had been slapped by another card. The ruling came back wrapped in lawyer speak, wrapped with a metaphorical wagging finger- _No, no, no, the rules are the rules_.

 _Me cago en tu madre_ , came Alonso’s first of many uncharitable thoughts, but UEFA refused to be moved, so he showed up in suit and tie, travelling with the rest of the team, on private jet and then coach, because he couldn’t pass up a trip to the British isles, no matter how passing- and refused to think why. 

The Cardiff City Stadium, as befitted most stadiums of its size, had adequate dressing rooms. Real Madrid and Sevilla’s dressing rooms were a good distance from each other, but still close enough for him to hear the noise of the other team. The mood buoyant, ripe with expectation, the excited chatter of Spanish accents from varied regions, zipped and zinged around him. For a brief moment, if felt as if he were actually getting ready for a local derby in Spain- if it weren’t for the Welsh/English signs on the walls, and again, the smattering of Ys and Ls which still confounded him like they did the first time he saw them. The players were tucked in their dressing rooms, save one, this _chico_ who stood outside. Obviously one of Sevilla’s with his white kit with coloured trim, and the studio pass around his neck. 

He was obviously in some distress, trying his best not to cry, but failing miserably, wiping at his reddened eyes, and rubbing at his nose. Only to cover his face with his hand, turning away to the wall, letting out a muffled sob. Xabi stopped, momentarily at a loss of what to do. He wasn’t one to necessarily get involved in other people’s problems- they had _team captains for that_ \- but there was something about the boy (God, he was getting old if he could look at up and coming players as _boys_ ) that seemed familiar. Xavi frowned, mildly intrigued, as he slipped his hands in his pockets, observing him with the abstract interest as one would look at the turning, swirling clouds in the sky that forecasted turbulence. This _muchacho_ a solid one, all shoulders and legs, not very tall. His hair styled in the way that only the very young could get away with. Lines, the crown sprayed and arched into a quiff. The boy in white kit turned around, his ginger beard still not dislodging the puppy fat on his cheeks, his eyelashes, darkened and dampened by tears underscored the effect of _boy_.

Xabi’s eyebrows lifted as he realised- he knew him. 

Alberto Moreno. Sevilla's left back, from the club's own _cantera_ to first team. Spanish international under 21. Liverpool had had him in their sights for a while, whereas Sevilla seemed a bit cool on the idea of selling. Not that he could blame Liverpool, Alberto Moreno made an exciting prospect. Work rate, speed, incentive, knew when to keep the plays simple or make something happen, and he was strong. No gazelle gambolling on the field, here.

“Could be the next Jordi Alba,” he remembered giving Carra his verdict some time ago, when Carra called asking for Xabi’s opinion. Carra whistled in appreciation at the sentiment, like one would on seeing the lines of a particularly fine horse, or sports car. 

“That’s the one your Brendan Rogers has been chasing, hmm?” Xabi asked, before clicking at his dog tugging at its the leash as he walked around the narrow, shaded streets of his neighbourhood in Madrid early morning.

“Yeah,” Carra said. “Liverpool are in the Champions League now, and according to Stevie, Rogers thinks that he’s the one.”

“How is he?” Xabi had asked, trying to keep his voice level, but his fingers tightened on his handset. Not that they were on the outs, they were- well, whatever they were at this point in time, when both professed to be too busy, playing at a Mexican stand off, seeing who’d break down and call each other first. No, it wasn’t healthy, he’d admit. It never had been, not for a long time, the situation between them an open equation that had yet to be solved. The figures written out on a metaphorical chalkboard, waiting for full expression, but neither of them wanted to step forward and work it out. 

“Who, Stevie? Erm, still Stevie. Half worried, half cracked, all Captain Fantastic.” Carra laughed warmly. “Held together by glue, gum and some wires, I think. Powered by nerves; maudy and excitable as fuck, you know, the usual.”

Yes, Xabi nodded, as he rubbed his finger along his nose. He did. 

“I would have- well, we had that tour in the US and we never had the chance to meet up.”

“Well, he’s back now, and rested, and raring to go. Champions League. He’s excited.”

“He would be,” and Steven would, because the last time Liverpool had their taste of European nights, Xabi had been in the lineup. He left that year, and so had Liverpool’s chances. It wasn’t an idle boast, it just was. 

“ _I_ am, I’d like you to know! It’s been all right for _some_ -” Carra, fizzed with good humour as a carbonated drink, ribbing Alonso about his successes at Real Madrid. “But for those of us who’ve been in the wilderness for a time, it’s good to be back. Moreno might be a key component in getting us there.”

The dilemma of modern football for you, especially in the Premier League. A lot of pieces and planning spent in getting talent from all over the world and meshing everything to become a super team that could take on all comers and manner of competitions. 

“Well, when you see him,” Xabi said, letting the leash play out to give his dog more of a lead for him to totter forward on stubby legs, sniffing along the warm stones of the sidewalk. “Tell him-” and what was there to say? _I wish you’d break down and call. I wish you wouldn’t call at all. I wish I could leave you behind like I left Liverpool. I wish you wouldn’t speak to me. I wish you’d really try. I wish you’d stay away- I hope you don’t. Don’t put pictures of us on Instagram, I will never follow or like. I don’t care. You shouldn't either_. “I said hi- and welcome back to European nights.”

“Will do. We should meet up soon, European nights or not, he’d be well up for it. Whether Real is drawn against Liverpool or not. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Xabi repeated, because Carra was too good humoured and genuine to say no to, or make vague excuses. “Good bye, Carra, I have to go and pick up after my dog.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Carra clicked off, leaving Xabi to look at his handset. He scrolled through the handset, zooming through his contacts- only to get disgusted at himself and clicked out that part of the phone. He’d play the Mexican stand off a little bit longer, step away from the chalkboard equations. 

The next Jordi Alba was now slumped in a chair against the wall, his trainers on the edge of the chair’s seat itself, his knees drawn up to his chest, supporting his folded arms, his head resting on his forearms.

 _God,_ Xabi shook his head, considering. _Was he ever that young?_

A quick glance, wondering if anyone would be wandering around trying to find this lost, crying boy, and realising that no, right before a match, with jitters in the dressing room, and last minute reviews of tactics, no one would. He should go, and sit with his team or something- but that made no sense being in the dressing room right now. It was the place for players who were going on the field, with last minute tactics by Ancelotti and the introduction of James and Kroos, their new galáticos in the Real Madrid galaxy. He’d be better off going into the bar, and start on his celebrations now, because Sevilla were minnows. 

The muffled wail put paid to that pleasurable thought. 

On a huff of breath, Xabi stepped over, and sat on the chair beside him.

“Chin up, _muchacho_ ,” he said, by way of greeting. His voice brisk, engaging, but warm enough to illicit a reaction. “It can’t be all that bad.”

“Oh,” Alberto looked up, half in a daze, his face already mushed in a frown, tear stained and looking closer to his Jon’s age, than anything resembling a twenty two year old. “Señor,” he said, voice steadier with recognition. “I...” he gulped and tried again, his voice steadier this time, as manners and poise won over self pity. “ _Señor Alonso._ ”

“Xabi,” he raised his finger in Alberto’s direction as a soft reprimand. “You’re crying, we don’t need to be so formal. Besides, we’re _La Roja_ , no? Comrades in red. Regardless of our station in life before, we are the same level once we play for our country.”

“Oh,” Alberto said again, rubbing at his nose. “I’m-” his eyes started to tear up again, and sighing, thinking about that open bar, Xabi reached into his inner jacket pocket, whipped out a linen handkerchief that he handed over to Alberto to stem his... well, everything really. Eyes, nose and mouth. 

“Thank you, Señ- _Xabi_ ,” Alberto said, as he unfolded it and wiped at his eyes. 

“You want to tell me what this is about?” Xabi waved his hand, the action taking in all of Alberto’s sodden, emotional self. “Whatever it is, it can’t be _that_ bad, can it?”

Terrible question, to be sure, because Alberto started tearing up again, but he swallowed, and from out of nowhere, grabbed for some composure. “Sevilla and Liverpool came to terms today,” he explained, playing with the handkerchief, half folding and tugging it as if he were doing some sort of origami. “It’s been going on for a while, and I put it out of my mind, because-” a shrug of shoulders then. “It’s not my business, and I’m just happy to be here, in Sevilla, playing ball- and getting my team to the Super Cup. But now that I’m here,” he half pouted, a stubborn glint in his brown eyes that made Xabi like him a little bit. “I can’t play. I don’t belong to Sevilla anymore. They yanked me off the roster.”

“Liverpool, eh?” Xabi half laughed, resting his head against the wall and looking at the ceiling. He remembered when he got clearance for Liverpool, he’d written on the contract, _You’ll never walk alone_ , packed up his bags and headed to the airport. He had been on his way bursting for a new adventure, ready to soak up everything that he could, and Moreno here seemed to be shying away from it. In this world, it took all kinds for it to turn. 

“It’s a good club.”

“I guess,” Alberto said in unconvincing tones, bordering on a sneer. “That’s what the manager- Señor Rogers, said. But they all say that, don’t they? No one would say, oh yes, come and play at my _shit_ club. All clubs are _genial_ until you get there.”

Oh, Xabi pulled a face, trying not to smile at the boy’s spirit. Morenito not _so_ young, thank goodness. He had bite,too, he just might do. 

“You’ve only been at one club,” he chastised, “Sevilla is good, but there are better clubs, as well as worse. There are clubs you start off life in, before you move on to better. There are some clubs you stay for life- but that’s a rarity in this world, you know that, Alberto. You’re too good for Sevilla.”

The glare Alberto sent him could have cut steel, if the menace of it hadn’t been softened considerably by damp eyelashes and moist brown eyes. Young, so _young_. Xabi almost shook his head in disbelief but didn’t. 

“You’re saying, Liverpool is better.”

“It is,” Xabi affirmed, sobering up. “You could do worse playing in the Premier League.”

“Premier League,” Alberto repeated, trying out the words. They sounded slurred in his striking Andalusian accent, one designed to swallow half the endings of the words in any language instead of adding to it. “Premier Leag-ue,” Alberto said again, trilling the rs, adding the hard ‘g’. “Like our La Liga, no?”

“Yes, like our La Liga. But different in a lot of ways. It’s fast-” Xabi mimed a run, pumping his fists up and down lightly, making little huffing noises. Alberto rubbed at his nose, not looking so fed up now as much as interested, a true student of the game. This Brendan Rogers had a good eye, because a talented player was good, but a talented player lead by interest in all the angles of their craft, became a whole lot better. 

“The pace is something else. They tell you this, that you have to think fast, move faster- and I will tell you this, too. But it’s something you have to feel and see because you won’t believe, with just your point of view from at one club in La Liga. It’s hard,” he lightly punched at Alberto’s calf. “The players, they don’t back down, so they don’t expect you to. It is a good league to play in. It’s a tough, competitive league where any team can cause you problems. Be it a top four team, or one that's three points from relegation. It’s not like here- where you have Real Madrid and Barcelona-”

“And Sevilla.” Alberto interjected with stubborn loyalty. 

“And Sevilla,” he smiled, liking this kid more and more. “Then everyone else. In the Premier League, every match is a war, and the away games- the supporters want blood and honour. They’ll cheer for their side, and it’s like... playing through the roar of lions. But-” Xabi nodded at the memory, “the English love effort, and a good game. They’ll clap for anyone who gives them a good game. Their side the loudest, of course, but still, they respect skill across the board.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah,” Xabi affirmed. “You’ll enjoy it a lot over there. The Liverpool supporters are the best. If they love you, they sing stupid songs with your name. Oh, you have your supporters here, in Seville, but if you lose, they whistle. They wave white towels. At Liverpool, they don’t whistle if you make a mistake, or lose the ball. They cheer you on, they make you want to fight for them. For the crest.”

“But -” and Alberto moved from age six to thirteen in a breath, with adolescent huff and all. “I don’t speak English.”

“You’ll learn,” Xabi brushed off that concern with the easy scorn it deserved. “English is a good language to learn in this day and age anyway. You shouldn’t let fear of the unknown impede your chance at a grand adventure, _Morenito_. Liverpool, in some ways, might have been my greatest one.” 

As soon as Xabi said this, the memories unfurled in front of him like a banner, streamed through his mind with the tumble and noise of a turbulent stream. 

The first Champions League cup heavy in his hands and on his head, the confetti and honours rained around them. Steven kissing him, the atmosphere electric, his skin sparking and goose bumped with it. What a game! What a result! _One Night in Istanbul_ , the red tops screamed. Recounting in breathless detail how Liverpool came back from three behind and sealing their place in the history books. That game, and everyone leading up to it, a war. Friendship and love- the brilliant colours of it- as bright as the kit they wore bandaging the worst of it. 

“I spent five years there, and don’t regret a single minute of it. The weather is not Andalusian, but the people are so warm, it almost makes up for the shit weather, almost. You’ll fall in love with the club.”

Xabi out, because of a player making a meal out of the challenge he did. He slipped off the field into the dressing room. Frustration and tears and anger swirling in him and feeding into a cycle like a storm on the sea as he sat in the changing room, not wanting them to see how upset he’d been. The rest of the team tromping in after the game, sweaty, and muddy and mad on his behalf. There had been no need to protest his innocence, because they believed, they _knew_ him. Carra, Sammi, Luis and Steven, and everyone, swearing, _We’ll win it for you, we will. Don’t you worry_. They true to their word, as he sat in the dug out the next match. Agony to watch the direction of plays and not being on the field _doing them_ , wishing he were on the field helping to direct, moaning as the other team got possession. Waiting on the stoppage time to wind down -

The sharp shrill of the referee’s whistle. The beat of deafening quiet that always came after, before understanding kicked in and the air trembled with the roar from the Kop. They did it! They won the match! And he couldn’t help it, happiness as sudden and unrelenting as a flash flood, swept his reserve away. He reached for Steven, and Steven reached for him, and the ground fell away as they jumped in the air, clinging to each other like the boys they were. It might have been all his Christmas letters opened and wishes answered at once by the Wise Men. _We did it, didn’t we, Xabi?_ Steven shouted in triumph. _We said that we’d do it, mate. We were well up for it, and we did it. Do you believe us now?_

_Yes,_ Xabi answered, laughing and crying because Carra pressed his lips against his temple before jumping and yelling in his ear, before running off screaming. Xabi and Steven suddenly on the ground, everyone piling up on them like puppies. Then, they were dragged to their feet as everyone half danced, jumped again, Steven’s breath in his ear. _We did it for you_. Xabi couldn’t stop laughing, wondering if he would explode from the simple joy of all. _Thank you,_ he said, pulling Steven in a fierce hug, their faces smushed against each other, Steven’s skin hot and steaming from sweat and exertion, but he didn’t mind. _Thank you_.

Xabi came back to himself, the memories as vivid as the day it happened. Today, of all days, they refused to be blunted by the practiced distance he employed when his mind tripped on Liverpool. “You’ll fall in love with the club,” he repeated, blinking his eyes, as he rubbed a hand over his beard, half wondering if Alberto’s high strung emotion was catching. 

Alberto dropped his feet from the chair, and crossed his legs at their ankles. Still upset at his present lot in life, if the glimmer of tears were any indication. Feeling at odds with Alberto for coaxing that pleasant memory, but realising that Alberto wasn’t the cause of it, Xabi reached over and patted his thigh in an apology Alberto never knew he deserved. 

“If you’re really against the transfer, you can plead your case, you know,” he said, voice warm and smoky. “You’re young, with a great future ahead of you if you stick to your path. Other opportunities will come again in quick succession, because you are quality. Other clubs will come knocking, probably nearer to home.”

“Yeah?” Alberto knuckled a tear away, brightening. When his face wasn’t as crumpled as the handkerchief in his hand, Xabi realised, he wasn’t bad looking. 

“Yes,” Xabi said, giving Alberto’s thigh a sudden squeeze. “But don’t wait on those opportunities, take this one.” And it took all of his self control not to laugh at how crestfallen Alberto looked, the shock of betrayal blazing across his face, because he thought Xabi would have given him an emotional out. A reason to say no to change and hold it off a bit more. 

“Liverpool wants you, and if a club wants you, that’s a good thing. They agreed to Sevilla’s terms. The skipper-” at Moreno’s blank look, he smiled. The boy would learn the ways of the Scouse soon enough. “I know him. He’s -” a pause here, as Xabi tried to gather his thoughts of the equation of Steven Gerrard together, and settled on the plain truth, because it was easier. “He’s a reasonable man. Or at least, he tries to be, probably that’s more important. The manager speaks Spanish, I hear.”

“He does,” Alberto agreed. “We’ve met a couple of times. He flew down to see me and speak with me in July. His Spanish is very good.”

“So that helps, a manager who knows the language. It’s a good bridge before you learn English.”

“How long- ?” Alberto cleared his throat. “How long did you stay?”

“Five years,” Xabi tilted his head in Albert’s direction. “It’s a club you won’t mind staying for five years.”

“Why did you leave?”

“I was ready for another adventure. But let me tell you,” Xabi said, with uncharacteristic candor as he waggled his eyebrows. “There’s nothing like your first.”

“Oh man,” Alberto placed his hand over his face, his laughter betraying his self indulgence of a pity party as he snickered at the double innuendo, his dimples winking in his cheeks. The laugh a bit more watery than Xabi would have liked, but the turn of phrase did its job. The sound of the doors opening and the two teams coming out, did their job too, getting Alberto out of his funk for a while, as they now suited up in their respective colours, ready to go outside and do battle. Alberto scrambled to his feet, ready to go with his teammates, and suddenly remembering his manners, he turned around. “Thanks,” he said, “I- I’ll think about what you’ve said.”

“I’ll be following your progress in the Premier League,” Xabi said, putting the screws in, causing Alberto to colour deeply, knowing that he’d be half impressed by _Señor Xabi Alonso_ taking an interest in his well being. Alberto bless him, was a simple enough equation to work out. _Stevie, here’s your man_. 

Later that night, Sevilla lost to Real Madrid. 0-2.

Through his half drunk haze, Xabi watched Alberto as he wandered on the field, hugging his team mates as they milled around, the trophy already etched with the winner’s names, but the Sevilla players still stood and walked around, commenting on the Welsh weather, swearing softly at their loss- because they believed that they had a chance against Real Madrid. David and Goliath- because despite all the money, and organisation and the increasing caste system of the sport, it still had the ability for thrills, romance and the great upset. 

Xabi saw when the reality kicked in for Alberto. When the shoe dropped that he wouldn’t be trying again for the Super Cup with this team next season. The next two days- because he belonged to Liverpool now- he would be whisked to the English North, leaving his friends and all he loved behind. Again, Alberto cried, pressing his hands to his face, his friends and teammates crowding him and consoling him with hugs. Xabi, looking at his beer, half wondered where his own emotions had ebbed over the years. Asking himself if his feelings had ever been brushed so close to the skin, if he’d ever been so sensitive or sentimental. 

He fished out his phone, already filled with pictures of his feet on the trophy (why not?), and half buzzed, clicked the number he’d been avoiding all this time, this time, he losing the Mexican standoff this round. 

“Xabi,” Steven picked up after the first two rings. 

“Steven.”

“Congratulations. Another piece of silverware to add to your collection.” 

“Hmm. Yessh.”

“Oh Xabi,” Steven laughed, and if Xabi really wanted to, he could imagine the tickle of breath at his ear, all warm and knowing. “You’re half way to being legless aren’t you, mate? Will you be rocketing around Cardiff on Stella this time?”

Xabi rubbed his hand against his chest, emotions half stunted. He wished he had Alberto’s unselfconscious way of being, just for even the duration of this call. Sipping at his now warm beer, he watched Alberto wandering around like a lost child, his hands clenched around the hem of his jacket, his emotions raw and flaring like a beacon. He watched Sergio Ramos drew him in for a cuddle, a kiss on the cheek. 

Despite the chilly professional relationship they shared, Xabi liked Sergio a little more for doing this, looking out for a little one. Sergio said something that made Alberto smile, just for a little bit, his lashes damp with tears, as Sergio gently slapped at his cheek. Probably telling him that see, look how it worked out for him, leaving the _cantera_ and cotton wool of Sevilla for a _gran club_. But Ramos was different, he’d gone to Real Madrid; a different club but the country and language the same. Not so far, because at the end of the day, Ramos moved into a nicer house in the same neighbourhood, but it was still the same neighbourhood after a fashion. Alberto, in a lot of ways would be travelling further; even if he dovetailed and came back to Sevilla, a couple years later, he’d still have travelled a longer way than Ramos did. 

“No,” Xabi said, “this is good, but not _la decimá_. That was everything.” A silence at this, before he swallowed and said, “I saw your Alberto Moreno tonight.”

“Oh yeah? What’s he like?”

“Emotional. Young. He doesn’t want to leave Sevilla. He doesn’t want to leave his boyhood club.”

“Understandable.”

“Why?” Xabi asked, “I mean, what makes someone want to stay at their childhood club? You, Iker Casillas, Xavi Hernandez and now Alberto Moreno. Just-”

“Not everyone needs to go haring off to the great unknown for an adventure, Xabi. I got fortunate, finding it in me backyard. So I guess he’s coming, then? Heard the shocking state of affairs over the years re: Liverpool and started crying? We’re better now, you know.”

“I know,” Xabi said. “I’m happy for Liverpool. You have European nights again. Champions League.”

“Champions League,” Steven repeated. “I missed it you know.”

“I know.” Xabi knew. No matter how happy Steven had been for Xabi’s successes, he wanted some for himself- and his club too. Because Steven loved Liverpool with the same zeal that a patriot loved his country, probably even more. 

“Well,” Steven breathed, “I’m glad you saw Moreno.”

“I told him that he’ll fall in love with the club.” Xabi sipped at his beer again, half wondering if he’d ever be able have a conversation without hiding truth behind banal pleasantries. Sometimes, it seemed his default mode was set to saying gracious things, and not being able to stop himself saying something flowery that made people swoon and murmur at his class. Then saying something else that made what he said before seem overblown and insincere. 

_I’ll never walk alone. I will always have fond memories of Liverpool. My son will be a red. We had great European nights, Liverpool. I’ll always be a Madridista. La decimá made my blood bleed white. La decimá was better than the Champions League trophy in Istanbul. Hala Madrid y nada más._. What would he say when he left Madrid for...? When he left Madrid. _I would only have ever left Madrid for this club. It is a great club_. Leaving people to put his words together, try to arrange them in some sense of order, and Xabi half hoped that he’d be pushed, to reduce the floridity of his words to figures, to separate base formulas of what he really meant from bullshit.

Case in point. _He’ll fall in love with the Club_. “I also said that you’d treat him well, and he’ll have a lot of fun.”

“We will,” Steven sighed, and it wasn’t the sigh of a skipper realising he had another player to try and fold into team dynamics, as much as the sigh of someone who was tired of working through a chalkboard equation. Whatever this conversation was, whatever they were. For a brief, stunning moment, Xabi felt a hot burst of anger ripple through him. 

Not pissed, or scornful- he could call that emotion up on the field, anytime against anyone, with an ease and ruthlessness that shook his own teammates at times. Stepping over a prone Lionel Messi’s body on the pitch, during a _clásico_ , or getting into Pep Guardiola’s face on the sidelines. That was _easy_ , you used anything at your disposal against your opponent to get the result you needed, even if you had to risk getting a card by the referee. 

This anger shocked, because it made him _impotent_ , having nothing to project it to. However he expressed it, it would never move this stalemate between them. The conversations truncated by the things they both couldn’t say. 

“Thank you for selling Liverpool to Moreno. We’ll take care of him, we promise.”

“You should,” Xabi’s voice iced with hauteur. “I need to go now. Celebrate you know, winning another trophy.” The comment petty and mean, designed to goad Steven into saying something, to push back, to write another equation on their blasted chalkboard. But Steven had obviously grown into that distinguished leader of men role he set himself up for all those years ago, refusing to be needled. Not even when the quote about _la decimá_ being better than Istanbul got back to him via twitter. _You’re Spanish, right? Even though you’re Basque. Or summat. It happens._ Damned Steven and his easy acceptance, for not caring enough (or too much- probably) to engage in the go around. Damn him to hell and back for accepting the casual jeer now. Even if Xabi didn’t mean it. 

“You should,” Steven said in the easy, reasonable tones of a parent trying to argue with a child’s logic. “You might be able to set a table for company to call with all the ones you have. Tell me how it goes, yeah? _Adios_ , Xabi.”

Feeling insulted, but unable to say why, Xabi ended with a brusque, “Good night.”

Steven clicked off, leaving Xabi staring at the phone, before he clicked it off too. Half annoyed with himself, with them both, he chucked his beer away. Time to go to the bar, and get a new one, something colder this time.

***

With the low key fanfare the English took towards these things: an announcement in the sports papers, a video on the website, no press conferences, or talent display with an open day at the stadium, Alberto Moreno joined Liverpool. Did the interview, held the red shirt, stood by the Shankly quote, did the Liverpool lean. Along with the rest of the muted song and dance parade that English clubs did with a signing. Enough for the club supporters to get to know their new player, to rally around and support and buy his shirt. Just a glimpse before he got tucked away in training, ready to be shown in the next match whenever that would be.

Alberto had rallied, explaining why he was emotional at Cardiff, and citing the reasons for joining Liverpool, saying that it was a _gran club_. Alberto was composed, warm, and eager, his words unclouded by artifice, the sum of his emotions easy to see. Xabi clicked off the video on his laptop, being happy for him. Even just getting on the plane, and doing this, in a foreign country and a different language, Alberto given himself permission to have the taste of a grand adventure. 

Xabi’s phone rang, a number that he didn’t recognise. After two rings, he decided to answer. “ _¿Digame_?”

“Señor Alonso? Xabi?” The voice familiar, but different and stronger, unaffected by tears. “Hello?”

“Ah, little Alberto Moreno. _Morenito_ , how are you?”

“Oh, I’m fine. I’m sorry, I asked Sergio Ramos for your number, because I wanted to say thank you, for sitting and speaking with me that night?” Ah yes, the night of the Super Cup. 

“It’s fine,” and it was, for a lot of reasons. “Like I said, we share the same crest no? We’re _La Roja_ , at the end of the day. How’s Liverpool?”

“Cold,” Alberto said, “but I like it so far. There are other Spanish people here, so it’s not so strange.”

“Still. You must learn English.”

“I will, I shall. Señor Rogers- Brendan- said I should too, even if it’s just to understand what the referee is saying, even though yellow and red cards are universal, true?”

“True,” Xabi nodded. “You’ll understand the supporters too, when they sing for you. When they want to talk to you, and say kind words or even hard ones! But mostly kind. It’s good to understand kind words, in whatever language.”

“Yes, yes. I- I have to go and meet the others now. They are strict on time keeping here, but I just-” Alberto’s breath quickened, and Xabi could hear the blurred murmur of traffic in the background. He must be running. “I just wanted to say thanks, no? For giving me top advice.”

“You spoke to Pepe and Árbeloa too.” 

“Well, yes. I wanted to know if Liverpool was as great as you said it was! Wikipedia too! They said yes, so I’m happy to come here.” Alberto said with the confidence of youth. “I will be happy to do my utmost here.”

“Have you met the skipper?”

“Ski-, ah you mean the Captain, yes? Yes. He’s nice, sounds strange, like everyone does here! Señor Alons- _Xabi_ , I need to let you go. But I had to call to say thank you. Good bye.”

“Goodbye, Alberto.”

Xabi clicked off, leaving Alberto to his adventure. Looking at the time, and realising that he too, had to be at his place of work. The children, bless them, were bedded down for their siesta. He whipped out his phone, moving his thumb across the screen, unlocking the keypad. Half annoyed with them both, he glared at the screen. He’d broken their Mexican stand off last night, what was another message? Another equation to clutter the board. But for the first time in a while, Xabi tapped out a straightforward message. **Take care of Moreno, yes? It’s his first time away from home. He isn’t like me, looking out for adventure and another trophy and another league. It just happened to him, which is harder, I think.**

Didn’t half expect a message, but got one much later. After dinner at an exceptional Basque restaurant with his representatives, telling them a decision that would stun everyone by the end of this summer transfer window, Xabi walked home in the still summer evening, cobbled stones underfoot. His phone chimed and vibrated in the pocket of his slacks and Xabi pulled it out, read the message . **We will. Seems a good lad. I should probably be speaking the language by now, eh? Ten years with all you lot tromping through with your holas and adidoses. But it’s easier when you lot learn English and you do! He seems keen.**

Again, the easy acceptance, and Xabi’s vague, half expressed resentment around the lack of balance their equation had. Before he had the chance to throw the phone against one of those walls that separated houses from the pavements in Madrid, it rang.

“He’ll be all right, you know,” Steven said by way of greeting. “I know he’s not you, and I wouldn’t-”

“Why don’t you?” 

“Sorry?”

“Why don’t you get _mad_?”

“Over Alberto Moreno?” Steven’s voice almost squeaked in confusion. “What, mate? Why?”

 _Dios_. “No, I mean. That bullshit I said.”

“Ah.” Steven said after two beats of silence. “You need to be specific. You do spew a lot of bullshit, Xabi.”

Xabi laughed, but not really, he ran his other hand through his hair, ruffling the sleek style he had it for dinner. “ _Joder_. Just- fuck you, Stevie, okay? Fuck you. The Super Cup, that night, that trophy comment.”

“Erm,” Stevie did that English thing, where the ‘erm’ became almost a hum, a placeholder to their conversation as he tried to collect his thoughts together, and Xabi marked the point where Steven decided to go the other way. “You’re not wrong, you did have another trophy to clean. Did you ever get enough silverware to have company coming to call?”

“No,” Xabi said, voice petulant. “I need another one.”

“Well, not the Champions League. Hands off that one, it’s Liverpool’s.”

“I wish,” Xabi said, looking up at the Madrid night sky, the city so brightly lit, the sky appeared less inky black and more a charcoal. “I wish you’d stop making this so easy.”

“Xabi,” Steven sighed. 

“No, don’t do that,” Xabi snapped his voice thick with temper. “Don’t be Captain Fantastic, Mr Nice guy. Mr Maturity. I wish, I wish you’d get angry. Push back. Say what you mean.”

“I did, I do. It didn’t matter, you left, remember? I know you were pushed out but-” Steven’s voice hardened. “It was a body blow, you left us bleeding. We got on with it, and we’re doing better now. Thank you kindly for Moreno, we’ll take care of the lad. He might work for us, he might not, but we’ll give him a go, and do right by him as long as he’s with us.”

“Ah Liverpool,” Xabi spat, his tone ugly with resentment. “It all falls back to club.”

“Liverpool never left me, not like you did.” Steven snapped, before he expelled a shaky breath. “Xabi,” he said, a lot calmer now. “It worked out for the best. You left for your career, and Benítez's madness behind and I can’t blame you for that. I’m glad the world got to see what we knew, that you were class. You got your trophies, and branding, and domestic honours to echo your international ones. Can’t that be enough? We’re still friends, of a sort, isn’t that enough?”

“Yes.” _No_. 

“Right, well. I’m still in me driveway, after a fashion, so-”

“Do you know why?” Xabi said quickly, before Steven started to give his goodbyes, leaving them no further on down the road than where they started. “Why I tell my fellow Spaniards to go to Liverpool? It’s because-” Xabi kicked at a loose stone along the pavement, absently waving to people who recognised him, them on their way to restaurants at ten o'clock at night. “You’re there, and despite everything I say- I do love Liverpool. It’s a club I fell in love with.”

“I’m glad. At least-” a brief lull in the conservation, before Steven cleared his throat and spoke again, his voice soft, almost inaudible. “It wasn’t one sided, you know? I used to wonder sometimes, for a long time, after everything... If I just imagined the whole thing. If I _projected_ the reality I wanted on something that wasn’t there and did it for five whole years. Can you imagine?”

“No,” this Xabi could be honest about, a simple word of fact, instead of an embroidered statement of being where no one knew exactly where he stood. “It wasn't.”

“Good night Xabs,” Steven said, not unkindly, and Xabi could let him go, this time. Even though he wanted to share his other news, it just didn’t matter in the scheme of things. They both tried this time, hadn’t they? In a better place than before? He’d have this, and tell Steven his other bit of news later.

“Night,” he said, before Steven clicked off. 

Xabi looked at his phone. Then quickly, before he changed his mind, sent a message. **Alberto, good luck with your new adventure. I hope you love Liverpool as I did.**

Two minutes in, and the response came back, along with appropriate emoticons. **Thank you. I might be playing Manchester City in my next match. Excited! Hopefully we can do lunch- probably Liverpool? When I get settled? Or somewhere in Spain? I’m in the middle of a ping pong match and I'm losing!!! D: Speak to you soon, I hope.**

Xabi took heart from that. Another Spaniard on his way to Liverpool, excited and happy, and Steven there, a point of reference for everyone. You really couldn’t ask for much else in this world at this point in time. Slipping the phone in his pocket, Xabi checked his watch and headed home. 

FIN


End file.
